


Letter from the Past

by Yitzock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anger, Conflict Resolution, Crying, Fights, Jealousy, Johnlock - Freeform, Letters, Love Letters, M/M, Nosy John, Past Drug Use, Past Relationship(s), Photographs, Viclock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 12:35:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5585587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yitzock/pseuds/Yitzock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is looking for a lost cooking utensil when he finds a letter from Sherlock's old boyfriend.  When Sherlock comes home, John demands answers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letter from the Past

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt was: I'd like to read about a Johnlock fight, maybe even raised voices, but that (obviously) gets sorted out :P I love angst!

It began simply enough.

Sherlock had “borrowed” some kitchen utensils for an experiment or something else that he had decided was a reasonable way to pass the time. Of course, he had not bothered to return these things to their proper place once he was finished with them. Since he was not home that afternoon – he had gone out alone to get the details on a new case and had said specifically that he wouldn’t need John, but would come back if he did – it meant John had to mount an expedition to find these things.

He started in the kitchen in case Sherlock had left them somewhere in the wrong place even if he was in the right room. No luck. John then proceeded to look around the living room. Still no luck. With a sigh, John realized he would have to go into Sherlock’s bedroom. Whatever the experiment was, he hoped that there was nothing messy in the bedroom that he would regret seeing. He hadn’t smelled anything strange in the flat recently, but perhaps that was just a sign of how deadly whatever it was might be.

John opened the door and looked around. Lo and behold, there they were: the whisk, spatula, and spaghetti scoop rested innocently on top of Sherlock’s dresser. John noted that they had some residue of an unknown substance on them – he would ask Sherlock what it was later – but were otherwise clean. He would just give them a good wash and they would be fine. John moved to pick them up, but then he was distracted by what lay next to them.

An envelope sat on top of the dresser. The return address was now unreadable, the ink having run some day in the past, but John could still make out the name above it: Victor Trevor.

Sticking out of the envelope was a folded sheet of paper and the edge of a photograph. While still covered, John could make out from the part that was showing that it was a photo of Sherlock.

John didn’t mean to be nosy, but since Sherlock had never mentioned any old friends, he thought that he’d just take a quick look in the envelope and then put it back. He picked up the envelope and slid out its contents.

John had been right; the photograph was of Sherlock. He looked like he was about ten years younger, give or take – his face was in profile so it was hard to tell for sure. His hair was a little shorter but still the mass of dark curls that John knew.

These details only meant anything to John for a few moments, because the rest of what the photo depicted quickly overtook his mind. It was a candid photo of Sherlock kissing another man. This man was a bit taller than Sherlock, not as skinny, and had close cropped brown hair. His eyes were closed, as were Sherlock’s, and his hands passionately gripped Sherlock’s shoulders. It was an embrace that exuded intimacy, so the relationship must have been important to Sherlock at the time. John again wondered why Sherlock had never mentioned this person to him.

John’s eyes were drawn to the photograph, but he still had not looked at the letter. He unfolded the slightly rumpled paper and began to read the sloping hand.

_January 6th, 2010_

_Dearest Sherlock,_

_I hope this letter finds you well and that the New Year went well, too. I know you were never much for festivities, but I also know that your colleagues happen to enjoy them very much and would no doubt have invited you to join them._

_I thought I’d include this picture with my letter. Look how young we were then! I still remember those days. I’m sure you do, too. You_ do _remember everything, after all._

_You haven’t been sending letters as often as you used to. I hope you’re not cheating on me! I am joking, of course. You wrote me last about how much you missed me, how you yearned for my touch at night when you were alone with your thoughts. I know how my presence used to comfort you on those nights when you didn’t have a fix. Or even on the other nights._

_It’s been two years since our last date, as I’m sure you know. You’ve been so busy, as you’ve told me repeatedly, and I haven’t been in London. That’s what I’m really writing you about today._

_I will be coming to London at the end of February. Let me know when you can see me. I can’t wait to see how much more handsome you’ve surely become since the last time we were together. Just like you said, we can go out to eat and then head home to your flat and catch up on everything else that can’t be seen or discussed in public. You were always very adept at putting your hands in all the right places. The memory of your warmth soothes me in my moments of solitude as well, my love, more than perhaps even you can imagine._

_Please write to me soon. It doesn’t have to be much._

_Victor_

By the end of the letter, John could feel his blood pulsing and his face becoming hot. It was even clearer to him now how close Sherlock and this man had been. Well, the past tense was unclear. The recent date of the letter suggested that the two of them were still close. At least, they were in January 2010, which wasn’t that long ago.

The text of the letter certainly was quite incriminating. John couldn’t imagine feelings like those disappearing so quickly, and John had met Sherlock only a few weeks after he would have received the letter that John now held in his hands.

John then saw something else on the dresser that must have been sitting beneath the letter. It was another, more recent, photo. Sherlock still looked younger, but not nearly as much as in the other photograph.

In this one, Sherlock was with the same man as in the other one, but this time the couple was facing the camera. They sat next to each other on the banquette in a restaurant somewhere. The taller man – Victor – had his arm around Sherlock’s shoulder, squeezing them close together. The corner of Sherlock’s mouth was turned up in a smile.

As John looked at what he had found, he thought back to when he and Sherlock were at Angelo’s during their first case together. Sherlock had to have been lying that night.

John’s thoughts were interrupted when he heard the front door open.

“John?” he heard Sherlock call. He huffed and then left the bedroom.

“The case is solved, John,” Sherlock said when John appeared. “Much less interesting than I had anticipated. Much too simple. Shall we –” Sherlock stopped abruptly when he noticed what John was holding. His eyes moved from the letter and back to John’s stern face. An expression of guilt appeared on his.

“John…” he said in a much less confident tone than he had assumed a moment ago. His mouth worked, trying to find the correct choice of words.

“Tell me, Sherlock,” John began, his syllables crisp. “Who is Victor Trevor?”

Sherlock tried to speak, but only let out a sigh of resignation, his shoulders slumping.

“Talk, Sherlock!” John snapped. “Who. Is. Victor. Trevor.” It came out more like a command than a real question.

“Why does it matter?” Sherlock asked defensively but sounding as if he had nearly given up before he had even spoke.

“Why does it matter?” John parroted. “Why does it matter? Because you lied to me, Sherlock. You were corresponding with this _Victor_ practically up until the day we met. When we met you told me you didn’t have a boyfriend. And yet you were writing letters to this _Victor._ You told me you didn’t have a boyfriend, but that was a lie. You already had one. Someone who, by the looks of this letter and these rather telling photographs, you were madly in love with!”

“John, it’s not –”

“You want me to believe it’s nothing? You really think I’m going to believe that? You can’t just forget someone like that, Sherlock, and I doubt you were going to do so because of some bloke you’d just met. And yet even now, you still never told me about him. If you weren’t with him anymore, then you could’ve mentioned him at some point, but you didn’t. So that must mean you’re still in contact with him. What am I to you, Sherlock? What am I supposed to think of these past couple of years, hm? What did they really mean to you? How could you have –”

“John, STOP IT!” Sherlock shouted suddenly. He was glaring at John now, his eyes red and glassy with impending tears. John had not noticed the tears forming. “Just _listen_ to me. Victor means nothing to me anymore. I told you I didn’t have a boyfriend that night because after meeting you I was willing to put him behind me. I knew that, whatever happened, I was going to end up with you. Victor did want to see me, but I broke it off with him once the first case you and I worked on together was finished. I knew it was what I wanted.”

“So it’s all meaningless to you? And you never thought to bring it up? Not once? Why keep it secret unless you have something to hide?”

“Why should you care who my past boyfriend was? I met Victor in university. I’m not the same man anymore.”

“Are you, really? You still lied to me, after all that we’ve been through. If it’s because you don’t trust me, say it now instead of prolonging this as much as you already have.”

“I _do_ trust you, John! Why do you keep insinuating that I don’t? I’ve already told you why I didn’t tell you about him; it’s because he doesn’t matter to me anymore. You matter to me, John. _You._ Why don’t you understand? You mean more to me than anyone else ever has, John. Why would you ever think that isn’t true? Why do you accuse me of not caring after all this time? Maybe it’s you who doesn’t really care because you’d be willing to cast me off because of something as stupid as this!”

John’s mouth gaped open as he watched Sherlock turn on his heel and exit the flat, leaving John in the haze of their argument. John did not hear Sherlock’s sniffles as he went down the stairs. But he heard his own.

John remembered days gone by when he had left the flat in a huff. This was a strange reversal. But then again, he thought, he deserved it.

He was not sure how long Sherlock was gone for. It was all a blur. He tried to watch the telly for a while, but after ten minutes he realised that he was not processing what he was seeing. Instead, his mind kept racing, thinking about what had just happened. At first, he was simply angry that Sherlock had kept a secret from him. In his anger, he had suggested that Sherlock didn’t really want him. John became scared as he thought about that. With the words that were exchanged, it was likely that he and Sherlock were over. He could no longer imagine living without Sherlock and he knew then that if this was the end that it would be his fault.

It was dark outside when Sherlock finally returned and entered the flat without a word. John looked at him and murmured his name, but that was all that he could say. What words could he even hope would heal the rift that had now surely formed between them?

Sherlock quietly hung up his coat and scarf. He then reached into his pocket, fiddled with his phone a moment and then held it out to John. His face offered no clues to his intention.

“What?” John asked.

“Just read it,” Sherlock said blankly.

Quizzically, John took the phone in his hand. The top of the screen read “Victor.” It was Sherlock’s entire text message conversation with the man.

_You never replied to my letter._

_I think by now you should know why. SH._

_Sorry for being dim, but I don’t._

_I don’t want to see you anymore, Victor. SH._

_Why not? Only a few months ago you were dying to see me._

_Frankly, Victor, I no longer feel that way. I’ve met someone and I like him much more than you. SH._

_How can you say that, Sherlock? It’s out of nowhere! You can’t have forgotten me that easily._

_Oh, I haven’t forgotten you, Victor. Not yet, anyway. SH._

_Please, just give me one more chance._

_My answer is the same, Victor. No. SH_

_Come on!_

_No. Goodbye. SH_

The conversation ended there. John reread it in disbelief. This was the cold Sherlock Holmes that John had met in the beginning. It was hard to believe that any warmth had existed between Sherlock and Victor before this exchange had taken place, even with what he had found to prove otherwise. The difference was too stark.

John put the phone on the table next to him and then ran his hands over his face and sighed.

“Well?” Sherlock asked from where he was sitting across from John. “You’ve seen the evidence. What is your verdict?”

John tried taking a deep breath, but it caught in his throat.

“Sherlock…I’m…”

John looked up to see Sherlock scanning him, his face painted with concern.

“I’m sorry.” He got up from his seat and took a step towards Sherlock. As if he were reading a cue, Sherlock got up as well. One more pace by each of them and they were touching. John pressed Sherlock against him as tightly as he could, letting out a sob. “I love you, Sherlock. Please don’t make me leave.”

As he said the words, he felt Sherlock’s body shudder against him and then heard a rasping breath.

“Never, John Watson,” Sherlock’s choked voice said.

When they finally pulled away slightly, John looked up at those sparkling eyes that looked back at him. They were red-rimmed, as his no doubt were as well, but they were no longer sad. Sherlock’s lips curled up slightly and soon John found himself mirroring the expression. Somehow they had made it through this. John wasn’t sure how, but even Sherlock Holmes doesn’t have all the answers.


End file.
